


discord and rhyme

by orestes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Interns & Internships, M/M, Office
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:17:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1233031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orestes/pseuds/orestes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek doesn’t tell Stiles he’s proud of him. He doesn’t say that sales have gone up lately, and it’s probably this Twitter account’s doing. Instead, he settles his hand on the small of Stiles’s back and tentatively rests it there. “Not bad,” he says. “For a rookie.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	discord and rhyme

**Author's Note:**

> i've been trying to write a Stiles/Derek fic for months now and then i sat down and this one sort of... happened. The twitter account Stiles makes was inspired by [this one](https://twitter.com/WstonesOxfordSt).  
>  **edit:** cleared up a couple of typos

There are three types of interns in the world: liabilities, decent coffee makers and half-competent kids who just need to catch a break. Over the years, Derek found that the first category is by far the most common. Liabilities hover aimlessly around his desk, always seeking out guidance that Derek is not willing to give. “Which manuscript should I read first?” they ask, and Derek tells them he doesn’t care as long as they read them all. They nod, as if they understand, then ask: “How should I write up the reports? Here’s one I did earlier… Could you read it over for me, Mr Hale? It’s not like you’re the busiest person in the company or anything, and I really need someone to point out that I misspelled the title of the book every time I used it in my report even though my computer is equipped with spellcheck and the manuscript was right in front of me. So, um, is it okay?” 

Derek is not the nurturing sort, and keeping the kids who expect him to be is more effort than it’s worth. More often than not he fires them after one or two months. It’s often the same story with decent coffee makers. The only difference between them and liabilities is their ability to make a satisfactory cup of coffee whenever Derek demands one. You’d be surprised how hard they are to find, even though Derek has a top-of-the-range coffee machine that churns out a perfect cappuccino at the press of a button. It’s simple enough that a monkey could operate it, and yet—

“There’s a lot of buttons,” some say, shrugging like that’s an excuse. “The coffee machine I used at Starbucks was different.”

On the rare occasion Derek finds an intern that can make coffee, even if they can’t write a helpful report to save their grandmother’s life, he keeps them about. On average, they last half a year. As for half-competent kids, well. Derek is convinced they’re a myth. He’s heard about them, sure, but he’s spent four years working for Halefire Books, mentored twenty-seven interns during that time, and he’s yet to find a single one more employable than a teaspoon.

After he fires Greenberg (a DCM, but an annoying one), Derek considers giving up on the intern thing completely. It’s company policy that all Partners have at least one, but these things can be changed. If he makes a convincing appeal to Peter then maybe he can— 

God. Who is he kidding? If Peter thought the interns were annoying Derek, he’d give him two to look after instead of one. He lives to make other people’s lives a misery. So Derek sucks it up and hires another kid.

The new one is weirdly enthusiastic. He’s also twitchy, athletic, and far too chirpy. He’s tall and gangly enough his suits don’t cover his ankles properly, revealing his patterned socks, and his hair is a perpetual mess. Derek has no idea how to pronounce his name. Something Stilinski. Whatever.

“Stilinski,” Derek says shortly, and the kid startles in his seat. The pen he was twiddling between his long fingers clatters onto his desk, and he looks up at Derek with big Bambi eyes like he thinks he’s about to get shot. Derek sighs. The ones who are scared of him are the worst. “Make me a coffee. Machine is over there.” He points towards the kitchen. “Cappuccino—no shots no sugar.”

The kid nods and scrambles to his feet. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll get that right away.”

He deposits a steaming hot paper cup on Derek’s desk two minutes later.

Derek blinks down at it, surprised. His interns don’t usually take to his coffee machine so quickly. Even the best DCMs he’s ever hired had to fiddle with it for a good ten minutes before producing anything vaguely coffee-like. Derek is kind of impressed, momentarily, but maybe he’s getting ahead of himself. For all he knows, this could be the instant crap that Cora keeps in the cupboard above the sink. He raises the cup to his lips.

“Careful,” says Stilinski. “Might be hot.”

It is hot—hot enough to scald his tongue, but even through the pain it tastes good. Derek winces and sets the cup down. A smug look flickers across Stilinski’s face, like he wants to say ‘I told you so’ but can’t because Derek is his scary new boss.

Derek snorts. “Not bad,” he says. “For a first shot.”

He doesn’t say it’s the best coffee an intern has ever made him. The kid’s new. It could have been a fluke. As far as Derek’s concerned, he still needs to prove himself.

Stilinski grins at him anyway, like he can read Derek’s mind. “Such high praise,” he says. “I have the same machine at home, so.” He shrugs and scuffs the toe of his shoe against the carpet. “Whatever you want, I should be able to fix it for you.”

Two hours later, he dumps a stack of papers on Derek’s desk.

Derek raises an eyebrow at him. “What is this?”

“Reports.” Stilinski gestures to them. “Laura gave me copies of the latest manuscripts up for consideration when she told me I got the job. I’ve written summaries of the plot, put in some choice extracts, and done a short analysis on their strengths and weaknesses. If you need me to do something differently, let me know and I’ll change them.”

There are six paper wallets on his desk.

“You wrote six reports,” says Derek. “On six manuscripts you received four days ago.”

Stilinski scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah?”

Maybe they’re bad reports. Too vague, or too wordy, or not-spell-checked. Derek doubts it. The folders are all a decent size—not too long, not too short—and Stilinski seems like he has some common sense. Derek closes his laptop sharply and opens the first report, eyes scanning the page. Stilinski fidgets across the table from him, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

“Stop it,” Derek tells him absent-mindedly. “You’re distracting me.”

The kid stills. “Sorry,” he says, and chews his lower lip. “This reminds me of when I used to bring home my school report for my dad to read, and I knew I did the best I could and everything but I always figured he might be disappointed in me anyway, because—”

Derek rolls his eyes. “If you’re gonna keep talking, get out of my office,” he says.

“Sorry, I don’t really have a filter. Half the time I don’t even know I’m doing it. Rambling, I mean.” Derek looks up at him sternly. A light blush rises to Stilinski’s cheeks. “God. I’m doing it now, aren’t I? Just—I’ll stop, I’m sorry. Read the report or whatever. I’ll be over here, looking at your walls and not talking. Yup, going over here now.” He shuffles to the furthest corner of Derek’s room and starts poking at the potted plant Derek keeps there. “Whoa, dude, how often do you water this thing? Its leaves are super dry, you should—”

As he launches into a monologue about plant-care, Derek tunes him out. He comes from a large family. By now, ignoring people is like a second nature to him. It helps, of course, that the report is good. Well written. Concise. “Not bad,” he says. “For a first shot.”

Stilinski beams at him. For the first time in four years, Derek thinks he might have found a category three. Half-competent, and then some.

\---

“Your coffee, Master,” says Stiles, dumping a cup on the desk in front of Derek. He leans over the mountain of paperwork to pat Derek on the head. “Come on, Grumps. Put the scowl away and drink up. The caffeine might even cheer you up a little—who knows?”

Derek rolls his eyes and pulls the cup towards him. “Nothing is going to cheer me up,” he says petulantly. “Peter has stuck me with all the paperwork for the Twilight spin-off, and I hate him. He _knows_ how I feel about publishing it in the first place, but he’s a lazy son-of-a-bitch and he—”

“This is what you have an intern for,” says Stiles, and scoops the pile into his arms. “Also, isn’t there a company policy about not bad-mouthing your superiors?”

Derek sniffs. “Peter is not my superior.”

“According to office hierarchy he is.”

“Well, the office hierarchy is wrong. Just because he’s the CEO, doesn’t mean he’s the top dog. _I’m_ the top dog. Behind the curtains, I run this show.”

Stiles laughs. “Sure you do. Now drink your coffee and stop being such a baby. I’ll get this paperwork back to you later today, yeah?”

Derek doesn’t tell Stiles he’s a godsend. He doesn’t mention that he sometimes wonders how he ever got by without him. He doesn’t say anything, actually, just takes a sip of his perfect coffee to hide his small smile. And when Stiles is safely back in his booth, paging through the stacks of forms for Stephenie Meyer, Derek emails the finance department and tells them he wants to give Stiles a permanent raise. And a Christmas bonus.

Half-competent doesn’t even begin to cover it.

\--- 

It’s a Saturday afternoon, and Derek is at his apartment thumbing through a manuscript that Stiles spent the last week ranting about at every opportunity. He has to admit, it’s pretty good. The characters are interesting, and the writing style is distinct enough that it probably won’t be shoved under the umbrella category of ‘Kafkaesque’ by every critic in the English-speaking world. Derek likes it.

About halfway through the eighth chapter, his phone rings. “What?” he snaps into it.

On the other end of the line, Stiles laughs. “Hello to you too, Sunshine.”

“It’s the weekend, Stiles,” Derek grumbles half-heartedly. “You see me every day at work. Why are you bothering me at the weekend?”

“I just had a really good idea,” Stiles says.

“No,” says Derek immediately. “No way. Whatever it is, we’re not doing it.”

Stiles’s plans never work out well for anybody. Like when he tried to set Derek up with Lydia Martin, Cora’s beautiful-but-terrifying research advisor, by sending flowers from a ‘Secret Admirer’ to her desk every day for a month. He made the orders in Derek’s name, so when Lydia called the flower shop and made an enquiry about whom she should file a restraining order against, Derek was blamed. He thought she was going to castrate him. Or Stiles. It was a traumatising time for all of them.

He doesn’t hang up, though, and that’s all the encouragement Stiles needs.

“No flowers involved,” Stiles promises. “I just think that—and, okay, hear me out before you freak out on me—this is a good idea. Right, so, I think Halefire Books should get out there more. Foyles has overtaken us as the biggest chain bookstore, and Penguin are on our heels as the most popular publishers.”

Derek sighs. It’s the weekend. He just wants to read his book in peace.

“I’m aware of that,” he says. “What’s your point?”

“My _point_ is that we need a new angle.” Derek can almost hear the pleased-with-himself smirk on Stiles’s face. “Halefire Books needs to appeal to a younger audience.”

That’s what Peter says. All the fucking time.

“Ugh,” says Derek, because he’s sick of hearing it. “We’re already publishing those God-awful vampire books. Isn’t that enough?”

“Firstly, those books are most popular with our existing middle-aged female audience, not our young one, and you know it. You may not like to acknowledge it, but you’ve seen the statistics all the same.” And that’s true. Derek has seen the statistics. He refuses to believe them, though. You can prove just about anything with statistics these days. “Secondly,” Stiles continues. “I don’t think we need to worry about the books we supply. Halefire Books publishes more best sellers every year than any other company.”

Derek knew that too. He quotes it at Peter on a weekly basis.

He sighs. “What do you suggest then, Stiles?”

“We need more personality,” Stiles says, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

\---

The next week, Stiles sets up a Twitter account for them, a blog, and a Facebook page for people to ‘Like’ or something. Derek doesn’t really get how it all works, no matter how many times Stiles tries to explain it to him, so he just leaves Stiles to it.

Less than a month later, he gets a call from Scott McCall. As in the world-famous daytime TV presenter, Scott McCall. Derek is kind of star-struck. Maybe he babbles on the phone. “You want to interview someone from Halefire Books?” he asks, just to clarify. His voice comes out a kind of squeak. “Yes, of course we’d be willing to—we’d love to. You could bring your film crew here, we’d just need some advanced warning so we can—wait, you want to bring them next week? No, no, that’s fine, I just wasn’t expecting it…”

Stiles is leaning on the door of his office when he hangs up, smirking. “You’re blushing,” he says. There’s a delighted gleam in his eyes.

“I’m not blushing,” Derek snaps. “It’s the lights in here. They wash me out.”

Stiles snorts. “That doesn’t even make sense. Who was on the phone?”

Derek considers telling him it’s none of his business, because he hates it when Stiles gets like this—cocky, smirky and intolerable—but he’s not that cruel. “McCall wants to run a feature on Halefire Books,” he says. “Next week.”

“Wait, Scott McCall actually called us?” says Stiles. He looks startled. “Dude, I didn’t think he was being serious!” He bounces across the office to thrust his fist in Derek’s direction, an expression of childish excitement stretched across his face. “Hit it right here, buddy.”

“I’m not your buddy,” grumbles Derek. “I’m your boss.” He bumps his fist against Stiles’s anyway. “Wait,” he says. “You knew McCall would be calling?”

Stiles nods. “Duh! His show tweeted me about getting an interview.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. “They did what?”

“Tweeted. Dude, remember the Twitter thing? And the account I made for the company? You’ve gotta remember. It’s the one with the cute blue bird icon where you have to make posts under 140 characters.”

“Oh right,” says Derek, though he still has no idea what Stiles is talking about.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about.” Stiles rolls his eyes and grabs Derek’s laptop from his desk. It’s password protected, and Derek has never told anyone his password, but Stiles somehow manages to unlock it first time. “AlphaHale. Are you kidding me? I’m not sure whether that’s pathetically predictable, or predictably pathetic.”

Derek growls. “Shut up. It’s better than MarshmallowFucker69.”

Stiles splutters, his eyes widening comically. “What the hell, dude! How the fuck do you even know about that?”

“I know everything,” Derek says mysteriously, because that’s better than admitting how he saw Stiles type it in once when he was on his way back from the bathroom because he stopped to admire Stiles’s hands. “Show me what this Tweeter thing is, anyway.”

“Twitter,” Stiles corrects. “God, you are such an old man.”

He sets the laptop back down on the desk in front of Derek and then scrambles over the paperwork next to it until he’s over the desk and standing by Derek’s side: the Optimum Position for pointing at the screen and explaining things.

The website on the screen looks familiar-ish. As in, Derek can vaguely recognise the blue bird thing in the corner. He also recognises the Halefire Books™ logo that sits in a small square at the top of the page. He leans forward in his seat to get a better look, but Stiles pushes him back again.

“Welcome to the world of Twitter,” says Stiles in his best David Attenborough voice. “It’s part of a virtual community that can be overwhelming to the old, because they grew up in a time when cell phones didn’t exist and they had to pager their friends if they wanted to hang out after school.”

Derek snorts. “I’m only six years older than you, Stiles. I didn’t grow up in the seventies.”

“Shh,” says Stiles, reverting to his normal voice. “Just listen.” He clears his throat, and his nature-documentary impression resumes. “Stiles Stilinski, intern at Halefire Books, has spent the last three months building up a Twitter fan base for the company by being so _damn_ hilarious. He has over four-hundred thousand followers.”

“Followers?” Derek frowns. “That sounds creepy.”

Stiles fixes him with a glare. “Stop being difficult, you Neanderthal.”

“Isn’t there a company policy about not bad-mouthing your superiors?”

Stiles pretends to consider the question. “I don’t know,” he says innocently. “Is there?”

Derek laughs. “Idiot. Get on with it.”

“Fine. Anyway, people think I’m funny on the Internet. Totally crazy, right?” He pauses. Derek nods to show he’s listening. Stiles rolls his eyes. “That was the part where you should’ve told me that I’m funny always, so it’s no surprise to you that I’m an online sensation.”

“You’re not funny, though,” Derek says flatly.

Stiles swats at Derek’s shoulder in mock-offense. “I’m funnier than you are.” Derek can’t really refute that—no one ever laughs at his jokes—so he doesn’t bother. “Anyway. The Internet thinks I’m funny and apparently so does Scott McCall. He replied to one of my tweets saying he’d love to interview me on his show. So I gave him your number and, well—here we are.”

Derek doesn’t tell Stiles he’s proud of him. He doesn’t say that sales have gone up lately, and it’s probably this Twitter account’s doing. Instead, he settles his hand on the small of Stiles’s back and tentatively rests it there. “Not bad,” he says. “For a rookie.”

“You know, some day you’re going to have to pay me an actual compliment,” says Stiles. His voice is low and affectionate as, cat-like, he arches into Derek’s touch.

“A compliment?” says Derek. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Stiles laughs, closes the laptop and straightens up. Derek’s hand slides down the curve at the base of his spine abruptly. He settles it in his lap before he does something stupid—like touching Stiles some more. “You’re nicer than you pretend to be,” says Stiles softly. He soothes his hand through Derek’s hair gently, then ruffles it like Derek’s a kid. “Well. I don’t know about you, but I’ve gotta get back to work.”

“Sure,” says Derek. “Good chat.”

\---

The film crews come in next Monday, and so does Scott McCall. He’s even better looking in real life than he is on TV—though he isn’t really Derek’s type—and he’s just as bubbly and charming. He wanders around the office, babbling to his camera crew in between quick talks with employees. “You have a lovely work-environment here,” he tells Derek, ambling into the office at three o’ clock in the afternoon. He’s been here for three hours.

He sounds genuine, so Derek smiles. “Thank you. I like it too.”

As if he planned it, which, yeah, he probably did, Stiles wanders into the office. He puts a coffee down in front of Derek, grins at him, and then offers to get another one for Scott McCall. “I make a mean macchiato, don’t I Derek?”

“The machine does, you mean,” Derek grumbles back.

Scott looks between them, eyebrow cocked, and smiles. “That would be nice. Thank you very much, Stiles.”

Something in Derek’s stomach clenches uncomfortably as Stiles wanders back out of the room. Maybe he ate something dodgy at lunch? He has to admit, the cafeteria food has been sub-par recently. He should really look into that.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat. “Stiles on daytime TV. Huh.”

Scott nods. “You’re lucky to have him. He seems to really care about—his job.”

“Stiles is great,” Derek agrees. “The company would fall apart without him.”

Scott’s lips twitch. “I don’t suppose you’d say that again for the camera?”

“Not a chance.”

Stiles bustles back into the room. Too soon, like he’d already made Scott a coffee just in case. Or maybe Derek’s just being paranoid. “Aww, Derek. Were you being cute about me behind my back again?” He hands Scott his coffee then perches himself on top of Derek’s desk, legs swinging beneath him. “Ha! I knew it. He always does this, you know.”

“No I don’t.”

“Bet you thought your sisters didn’t tell me what you said about me after the Christmas Party, but they did—because they love me.” He grins over at Scott. “He pretends I’m just his coffee boy, but when he’s had a few drinks he goes on about he can’t imagine his life without me.” He ruffles Derek’s hair. “Sweet, right?”

Derek bats his hand away, agitated. “I didn’t say that. Ever.”

“Um,” says Scott. “It’s nice that you two are so close.”

“That’s one word for it,” mutters Derek. “Anyway. You need Stiles on Thursday morning for filming, right?” He waits for Scott to nod an affirmative. “That’s fine. I’ll have to push my schedule around a bit, but I should be able to make it.”

Stiles gapes at him. “You’re coming with me?”

“Yes,” says Derek, like that’s the end of it.

“We’ll be ready for you then,” says Scott. He shoots them both a blinding smile and sets his mostly-empty cup down. “Thank you for the coffee, Stiles, and for your time, Derek, but we’ve gotta dash. Places to be, people to see…”

Derek nods. “Talk to Laura. She’ll escort you out.” He stands up, shakes hands with Scott, and with his cameramen, and then McCall and his film crew are gone. Derek is left alone in his office with Stiles for the first time all day.

“You don’t have to come, you know,” Stiles says. “It’s not a big deal, and you’re too busy to just skip out of the office, especially if I’m not here to cover for you, and—”

“Shut up, Stiles.” Derek curves his hand around the back of Stiles’s neck and squeezes it gently. “I want to.”

\---

Derek picks Stiles up at six o’ clock on Thursday morning, and he’s practically vibrating in his seat. It looks like he hasn’t slept a wink. Derek has never seen him so keyed up, or even half as nervous. He settles a hand on top of Stiles’s bouncing knee, stilling it, and Stiles shoots him a grateful smile.

“Sorry,” he says, covering Derek’s hand with his own and squeezing his fingers gently. “I can’t help thinking I’m going to disappoint people or something.”

“Who could be disappointed with you?” Derek says. “You’re great. You’re gonna be great. All your followers will love you.”

Stiles snorts. “Have you been researching how Twitter works?”

“No,” says Derek immediately. “I mean—maybe. Not really. I just figured I need to know the basics if I want to understand your interview.”

Stiles smiles out of the passenger seat window and laces their fingers together in his lap. Derek flexes the fingers of his other hand on the steering wheel and tries to ignore the weird fluttery sensation in his chest.

\---

Scott McCall is pleasant, charismatic and friendly. Stiles is charming, witty and hilarious. They seem to have built up a rapport through the few times they have met, like they’ve known one another for years, and everyone in the audience cheers every time one of them cracks a joke. Derek feels a weird surge of pride just to be sitting there, watching them.

“So, Stiles,” says Scott. “You’re kind of the web’s hottest sensation right now. You gained over six hundred thousand Twitter followers in just a few weeks. What inspired you to start the Halefire Books account?”

Stiles grins back at him. “Honestly?” he says. “I just wanted to impress my boss.”

Momentarily, Derek feels like his heart is going to explode.

\--- 

It takes him twenty minutes to persuade security to let him back stage after Stiles has finished his interview, and twenty more to find Stiles. He’s in the bathroom, still shaking with—not nerves. Exhilaration. His hair is dripping wet, like he ran it under the water faucet, and his cheeks are pink with excitement. He startles when he sees Derek behind him in the mirror, and spins accusatorily to face him.

“Jesus Christ! What the fuck, Derek? Have you been practicing stealth walking or what? I knew those yoga classes were bullshit—you’re totally training to be a spy!”

“No I’m not,” grumbles Derek. “Stop being stupid.”

“Then walk like a normal human next time, or you might _actually_ scare me to death. And then you’d be out of an intern, and there’d be no one funny to run the Twitter account, apart from maybe Peter. But he’s not good funny. He’s bad funny. Creepy funny. Like, I-want-to-laugh-at-you-but-I-also-want-to-run-away-screaming funny, you know?”

“Stiles,” says Derek, low, crowding him against the sink. “Since when do you do anything to _impress_ me?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Seriously? We’re going to have this talk now?”

Derek settles his hands on Stiles’s hips, holding him in place. They’re close enough right now that he can see the golden coloured flecks in Stiles’s eyes; it’s closer than he’s ever allowed himself to get.

“Yes, we’re going to have this talk now,” he says firmly.

“Derek,” Stiles sighs. He sounds resigned. “I’ve been trying to impress you from the day I met you and you glared at me like you wanted the ground under my desk to swallow me up and eat me whole.”

Which—yeah. That’s news to Derek. Because he’s fairly sure that Stiles has been trying to irritate him to death since the day they met. Derek doesn’t tell him that, though. He doesn’t tell Stiles how great he looked up on stage either, when he curved his head back to laugh and left his long throat exposed. He also doesn’t mention how he’s recorded the show to watch later, and how maybe he’s planning on watching it again and again.

Instead, Derek presses his nose into Stiles’s neck and says, “Oh. Well, you had me at that cappuccino.”

Stiles lets out a startled laugh. “You’re kidding me.”

Derek nuzzles Stiles’s pulse point as he shakes his head. “Nope. I’m not.”

“That was a year ago, you asshole!” Stiles pushes Derek away from him. “We could’ve—you know. This could have been a thing _ages_ ago.”

“It can be a thing now,” says Derek, rolling his eyes. Then he presses forwards and kisses Stiles and that—that shuts him up more effectively than anything else ever has. The kiss is soft, lingering, and sweeter than either of them had ever imagined it could be even if Stiles is still bouncing anxiously in Derek’s arms. Derek runs his hand down Stiles’s back slowly, like he wants to memorize the curve of his spine, then he pulls back to grin at him.

“Not bad,” he says. “For a first shot.”

**Author's Note:**

> you should come be my friend on [tumblr](http://ghoulinski.tumblr.com) :-)


End file.
